The Red Year
by TaciturnDancer
Summary: Jade moves from NY to LA midway through her eighth grade year. She meets Cat, and sparks fly. An exploration of the formation of the Cade relationship, and of both girls' characters. Femslash. Rating subject to change as the story progresses.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Ideas for this have been knocking around in my head for far too long. This afternoon I was listening to music and drawing when the decision to start writing it finally overwhelmed me. So here you go. Pre-canon Cade. **

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Los Angeles is quite a bit different than New York, you think, as you settle down on the sturdy bench. Trees shade you, and green grass sways underfoot. Back home, the only greenery within miles was Central Park. Here, there's nice pavilions at private middle schools.

Unfortunately, you still can't find much plant life anywhere else. It's just as much a concrete jungle otherwise. The only difference is it's hotter on the west coast. But the endless city is a comfort, in a way. It's familiar. Some things never change.

Speaking of some things not changing, you can see a small pod of girls across the small park eying you up. Their lips rapidly form words you can't hear, but you know what they are saying anyways. You've heard it a hundred times.

Aren't big cities like LA and New York supposed to celebrate individuality? Instead, girls your age are always ready with a taunt. "What a freak," they say, looking at the colour in your hair, so different from their shades of blonde. Then they look to your clothes; your makeup; your body; skin; personality; existence.

They finally see you looking back. At least they have the decency to look slightly apologetic. You've run into a few similar groups who just kept on with the taunting gossip, only becoming more vicious if you gave them attention.

There's lots of differences like that, too. Your father has a different job, and a different woman on the side. You have a different neighbourhood, a different house, and a different room.

You like your new room better than your old one, at least. It's bigger. And you got to paint it a colour other than white, for once. When you first saw it, you had immediately asked to paint it red. It's your favourite colour, you think, while twirling a strand of hair around your finger. Your mother had cringed, though. "Too bright," she had said. After much convincing, though, she opted to let you at least paint it purple. Or, as she would say, eggplant. It's something, at least. Eggplants don't remind you of hospitals or insane asylums like eggshells do.

"Hi." You look up from the grass towards the source of the voice. Later on, you'd wish you hadn't. Instead, you'd wish you had kept staring at the ground until the girl walked away. But maybe she would've stayed, anyways. Would it have mattered? Could it have possibly changed anything in the long run?

But you look up, and then you see her.

Her hair is the colour of expresso, and her skin a smooth cream. Pink lips curl up into the slightest of smiles. That's all it takes for you to fall, and keep falling. Your lips part a fraction of an inch, your breath leaving you behind in the dust. A second has passed.

She's wearing an oatmeal coloured sweater. You want to graze your palm against it, and see if it's as soft as it looks. With it, she wears a brown a-line skirt. It's cinnamon to her expresso. Beneath the skirt, her legs go on for days. They end in a pair of scuffed black converse.

Something comes over you in that moment, and you want to take her hand and never let go. What a life with her would be like, you couldn't be sure. You have the feeling it would involve a lot of movie nights, and dancing under the stars, and even more songs sung to each other in the bright light of the day.

Two seconds. It's long, but short. A reasonable reaction time, and yet it seemingly held a lifetime's worth of emotion.

"Hello," you greet her back. It sounds smooth to your ears, even as your hands are shaking.

"Are you eating alone?" Instantly, you're reminded of all those girls. The teasing, the hurting. What a loser, they'd all think. No friends. Just some weird transfer student. But you look at her eyes, and you see a strange sort of honesty. She won't hurt you. Never, ever, ever. You don't need to answer her. She knows. The girl smiles. "Can I sit here?"

It tumbles out before you can even think. "Of course." And so she does. There's a good foot between the both of you, because somehow this girl has sensed you need the breathing space, yet also the companionship.

You don't learn her name that day, but it doesn't matter. Your name is Jade West, and you have fallen in love with a girl named Cat.

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**A/N 2: Let me know what you think.**


	2. 1 - Fallen Leaves

**A/N: So I realized halfway through writing this chapter that I was using second person present tense. I kinda freaked, until I went back to the prologue and saw I had written it the same way. I was nothing short of relieved. **

**A little bit of Cade interaction this chapter, but not too much. Mostly just setting up some stuff, and character development for Jade. Boo. But don't you worry, we'll get to the meat and potatoes soon enough.**

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A few days pass. You don't see her much. Occasionally you'll catch a glimpse of familiar dark hair, or think you'd heard her voice. You can't be sure, though. There was only that one meeting after all, and you both spent most of it silent, and not looking at each other.

As far as you're aware, you're not in the same homeroom class. You haven't started electives yet, though - they're still trying to fit you in, - but that's a wild card. You don't hold out any kind of hope that she's interested in the arts. It's not like you really know anything about what she's like. Maybe she had just taken pity on the weird new girl, decided to try and make friends, but didn't know what to say. Not like you would've known how to break the ice either, even if you had wanted to.

You haven't really talked to anyone, yet. The socialites are wary of you, and the more introverted aren't exactly apt to reach out. Not to say no one has tried striking up a conversation. There's been a few people who have tried being nice. But they've all had a plethora of better friends, so after one or two awkward and tense conversations, the novelty runs out and they stop trying. Cat must fall into that category too, you think.

It's something you hate, shallowly sorting people into categories, and plastering labels all over them like they don't mean anything. They're human beings too. They're complex, and they have feelings. But so do you, and that's why, against your better judgement, you do so. It allows you to keep all these people at arm's length, so you don't disillusion yourself. Getting hurt just isn't worth it, and it's something you already know all too well.

After a week, you've started to forget about her, and let the monotonous and dreary nature of the school to numb you. Classes are uneventful. Boring, even. Basic level Spanish is compulsory, and Science is as horrible as ever. Math is easy, but droning, with History on the flip side. You find the stories of war and revolution to be strangely fascinating, though you're absolutely shit at remembering all the names and dates.

The one course you actually really enjoy is English. Your teacher is on the younger side. Late 20s, early 30s. She's easygoing, and doesn't yammer on about unimportant things everyone should already know. Instead, she discusses literature - not the boring, early 1900s sort, that the older generation all have boners about. Rather, she enthuses about modern poetry, and mostly unheard of novels that sculpt grandeur worlds. She sometimes informs the class of rarely-used punctuation marks. Your first day, she had told everyone of the interrobang, and how it combined the uses of an exclamation mark and a question mark.

Most importantly, she talks about Broadway plays. When she heard you were from New York, she had immediately asked you which performances you had seen, and which your all-time favourite was. Of course you had seen plenty of productions; almost every major show since the time you were six. Your favourite, though you've never seen it personally, is RENT. She smiles and nods, and you know that she can tell you're a performer yourself, just by the way you say it's name. There's a certain tearful glamour to the life of a starving artist. It's part of the reason why you love the arts so much.

Her name is Ms. Webber, and she insists her students call her Kelly. Few of them do. She's only the second person you've met here you can stand.

It's lunch now, and again you've decided to eat in the small garden. You're surprised that not many others eat out here. They appear to favour the cafeteria, which makes sense, you suppose. It's cleaner, and they don't have to walk across the school. And it's air conditioned. Heck, that alone is almost enough for you to eat inside. You're not used to the heat here. New York was cool and wonderfully dreary most days. Even the summer wasn't too warm. Here, you could go to the beach in the middle of winter. There's little to no seasons. You can feel the sweat sticking your shirt to your back. It's disgusting. You can't even wear a shirt more than once without having to wash it. If only you could simply will yourself to stop sweating.

You take a bite of your salad. The lettuce seems to be as limp and lifeless as you feel under the rays of the sun. It tastes bitter, with no real flavour otherwise than the heavy ranch dressing. Private school or not, the food still sucks. You resolve to start packing your own, before tossing the pathetic pile of lettuce in the trash.

Instead of sitting back down on the bench, you decide to lay in the shade of the trees for a while. There's an oak in the middle of the clearing, its foliage offering ample shelter. It would be the perfect place for a picnic. Alas, you have no blanket, instead laying directly on grass and dirt. It feels cool underneath you, a breeze dusting your face with it's comfort. You shut your eyes, and listen to the sound of rustling leaves.

It's been a good while when you're interrupted by a recognizable voice.

"You're a bit odd, you know?" You keep your eyes closed, but smile and lift your brows as a response. "Some of the girls inside were talking about you."

"Let them. I don't care what they fucking think. They're idiots." Yet, your mouth twists down. You're not odd. Not really. If lying down in the shade qualifies as strange here, then-.

"I think you do. Care, that is." You hear her sit, and feel the grass shift slightly under her. "Maybe not what THEY think, but what people think in general." She's right, at least partially. If you didn't care at all, then why would you keep everyone at an arm's length? This isn't news to you, though. You've been psychoanalyzed before by plenty of people. Strangers, friends, family, professionals. Everyone has something to say about you, it seems. That doesn't mean you should be impressed with their meagre deduction skills. Any old idiot could see you don't like opening up to people.

None of them try to figure out why. They just tell you to stop and be friendly for once. Nevermind you already were, once upon a time, and it didn't matter. You can treat others as well as possible, and they can still spit right back in your face. You open your eyes, and stare upwards as clouds roll across the sky.

"Why are you out here, Cat?"

You can hear her hesitation. She was caught off guard. "I just wanted you to know what was going on, is all."

"I already knew. I'm not dumb, and I'm not exactly blind. But I'm not going to stop what I want to do just because of others. And I'm not about to cause a scene by calling a million other people out. I don't have the time, and I don't have the energy."

"…oh. Well, okay." Cat pushes herself back onto her feet, and dusts off her pretty pastel dress. "The bell's going to ring soon."

"Okay. Thanks." You say it tonelessly, not bothering to say goodbye to Cat or watch her go. Instead, you watch as leaves drift to the ground all around you.

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**A/N: Next chapter should be up this weekend, and from then on I should update on a weekly basis. Maybe twice a week every so often, if I feel up to the challenge. **

**Review?**


	3. 2 - Hello My Hate

**A/N: Little bit of a shorter chapter. Mostly an inner monologue. **

**Enjoy.**

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As you walk through your front door, you can't help but be thankful your parents have the tendency to be all but absent from your life. You're not sure you could take your mother swooping down from the rafters with warm milk and cookies, peppering you with questions about how your day was. Certainly not today of all days. Your life's not exactly sunshine and flowers most of the time, but today… it was quite a bit worse.

It wasn't just your classmates sneering at you all day for wanting to just relax for once. Nor was it the science homework, which you really do not get at all. Not even the blistering heat factors into your sour mood. When you close your eyes, and let your anger overcome you… it all just traces back to Cat, and what happened in the garden.

You were too harsh. Barbed wire and acid had coated your tongue before she had even finished her first sentence. Your entire exchange with her was defensive and violent, and you hate that this always happens. You're not this pessimistic and bitter. You're not. But Jade West is. This entire outward persona capitalizes on looking tough and lying to keep everyone away, lest they discover that your armour isn't as perfect as it would appear. It's got chinks; large gaps between the pieces that yawn out blood and feelings.

She was just trying to help, and you rebuked her because of a word choice. Because she called you odd, and that had set you off before you could even register that she had said it endearingly.

You fling your bag down onto the couch and flip your carton of smokes out of it almost unthinkingly. It's not something you do often. You have to be in a very specific mood to even want to, let alone enjoy it. That's the mood you're in right now - a self-loathing, tearful one. Heading out to your back yard, you light up, allowing the flame from your lighter to lick against your thumb for a few seconds before returning it to your pocket. The skin on that thumb is calloused. Partially from playing the guitar. Mostly from doing what you just had. There's barely even a fingerprint there, anymore.

Settling down on the porch, you take a long drag. You hold it in as long as possible before finally letting it settle in your lungs, and then you exhale. It feels like you're in some kind of bad coming-of-age movie. You chuckle, and take another drag. The smoke feels nice. It burns your lungs, just like the flame had with your thumb. Rebirth; like a pheonix rising from the ashes. Smoke spirals around you, and then you extinguish the butt of the cigarette against the porch railing. There's already several little black marks on it from your smoking. You're in this kind of self-destructive mood a lot lately, it seems. Today is worse, though, so you light another.

It's really shitty that you can feel this guilty about hurting someone you barely know, when you barely feel a thing after one of your frequent fights with your parents. That alone makes you feel a little resentment for the girl. You're not supposed to feel for anyone. All you're supposed to do is get through school, not make time for anyone, and then make it in the industry through your talent. Getting distracted by people… it's not in the plan. You don't have time for people. What you do have time for is a third cigarette. It's the last one in the pack.

She just seems… really nice. That's all, really. You feel guilty because she seems nice and has a nice smile and maybe just wanted to make a new friend, or help a stranger out. There's nothing wrong with that. And that's all there is to it. No other explanations or feelings, it's just shame and regret. A simple apology, and all will be fixed. You can go back to avoiding social encounters, and she can resume being nice to people without fearing they're going to practically yell at her.

You still can't shake the feeling that you're exaggerating your own reaction. But you've resolved to make amends with Cat the next time you see her, and by god you'll keep your word.

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**A/N 2: ****I forgot to add last chapter that chapter titles will all be songs. The chapter may or may not be loosely based on said song. Last chapter was Fallen Leaves - Billy Talent. This one is Hello My Hate - Black Veil Brides.**

******You know the drill.**


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